


Apricot

by buggery (the_Jack)



Category: DCU, Smallville
Genre: Boarding School, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Marijuana, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-20
Updated: 2002-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/pseuds/buggery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Luthor is overheated and sunburned and doesn't want the other boys to see him like this. Well... maybe one boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apricot

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in July 2002 — between Smallville seasons 1 and 2 — for a Crayola-themed challenge that was going around SV fandom at the time. Uploaded to AO³ in October 2013. Original notes at the end.

  
The north of England in April should be cold, wet, foggy, gloomy. Instead Alexander was sweating in his shorts, sprawled as wide as possible on his bunk, wishing the room's tiny window would breathe a breeze on him, or that there was any shade outside where he'd at least be in the fresh air. Sweat crawled on the tightened skin of his sunburned head, making the urge to scratch almost unbearable.  
  
Maybe he'd take another cold shower; maybe he wouldn't run into anyone between here and there, or in the showers, or on the way back. Maybe if he did, they wouldn't look at him like he was a half-boiled lobster escaped from the pot.  
  
Sighing, he snagged his handkerchief from the edge of the bed and wiped at his damp and thankfully unburned chest, his shoulders, the soft underside of his chin... then his forehead. No matter how careful he was, even the soft cotton felt like sandpaper, burning a brighter heat across his brow, and he groaned, tossing the traitorous bit of fabric away. The shower was starting to tempt him again.  
  
"Alexander?" He started, his head whipping round to face the door, grimacing as the back of his skull scraped across the too-rough sheet. The fresh pain was doubly galling, since there was only one person who pronounced his name in quite that cadence, or at least only one person who might plausibly turn up here.  
  
"Mahmoud," he answered, sitting up rather than futilely searching for a comfortable way to resettle his head. "Come to gawk?"  
  
"You know me better than that," Mahmoud said, grinning, inviting himself into the room and onto the corner of Alexander's desk. "I brought you something."  
  
"Hash?" Alexander ventured. Something to take his mind off the pain would be nice.  
  
"If I had hash, you think I'd share it with you?" This time he let a grin show to match Mahmoud's; they both knew that's exactly what either of them would do, given the opportunity. Abruptly Mahmoud was serious again, shifting his bag into his lap and slipping a searching hand under the flap. "No, I brought you my notes, since you skipped all your classes again."  
  
He scowled. "I'm not going to class like this. It's called out sick."  
  
"No, that's when you go to the infirmary and are excused. Honestly, Alexander, are you _trying_ to get expelled?"  
  
"No. And I'm not going to the infirmary like this either. It's not like there's anything they could give me... well, anything they _would_ give me, anyway."  
  
Mahmoud sighed. "It never fails: blow your stash one weekend, you'll need some before the next."  
  
"There's always drinking."  
  
"Which will only make it worse."  
  
"I know."  
  
"You're drinking water, though?" Alexander snagged his half-empty bottle from behind the footboard, saluted with it, took a swig. "I never said you were stupid."  
  
"Not where I could overhear you," he agreed, chuckling and realising that, until the laugh pulled his sore cheeks over-tight again, he'd actually forgotten the pain for a sweetly ignorant moment.  
  
"–actually did bring you something," Mahmoud was saying, and Alexander refocussed his attention, forcing his face to relax to just a mild smile. The hand was rooting in the bag, drawing something out, a smaller bag of brown paper, into which the other hand reached. Alexander cocked an eyebrow, gaze flicking between Mahmoud's face and the hands busy in his lap. His friend looked up, grinning again. "Ever had these fresh?"  
  
He was holding something out, two round things that crowded the breadth of his palm, orange but brighter than oranges, bright as the buses that ferried less privileged children to less privileged schools back in the States. Alexander didn't frown, but he knew concentration and perhaps a touch of confusion showed in his expression. "I... what are those?"  
  
"Apricots," was the answer as Mahmoud's smile grew wider. "The early ones just came into season." Leaning forward, he reached one towards Alexander, who stretched his own arm out to pluck one of the little fruits from his friend's hand, their fingers brushing with a heat less painful than sunburn but no less intense. Their eyes met momentarily as he found a hold sufficiently secure but not so firm as to bruise, and both their smiles meant something else, now. A glance at the door informed him Mahmoud had closed it when he'd come in, and how had Alexander not noticed that before?  
  
The apricot was warm to the touch, thanks to the simmeringly unseasonable weather, its flesh having just enough give to show its ripeness if it was like a peach or a plum. Alexander considered it, turning it in his hand. It was as small as a plum, but its skin was soft-textured, more like a peach in fact, though without quite as much fuzz. He stroked his fingers over it. It felt like... Raising his gaze again, he found Mahmoud looking back, then closing his eyes as he bit into the fruit he'd held on to, slurping as juice apparently escaped his lips. Suppressing a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature, Alexander brought the other apricot to his own mouth.  
  
The brief touch of it against his lips stretched to bite reminded him so convincingly of Mahmoud's balls against his mouth the last time they'd fooled around that he was startled by the flavour flooding his mouth, sweet and sharp and tasting nothing like any part of Mahmoud. It felt a lot alike, though, fleshy and yielding, and he thought of figs, thought of D.H. Lawrence, required reading here for all that it wasn't on any official reading lists. He licked at sweet fluid, feeling a drop form on and fall from his chin, and reflected that that was like his last time with Mahmoud, too.

**Author's Note:**

> A little stop on the journey from the boy who lost his mother to the man we glimpsed at Club Zero.
> 
> I was in the UK in April 1995, and it was in fact so sunny that my fair-complected companion got a sunburn. In ten days it only rained once.


End file.
